


Victorious

by asthiathien



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Battle of Bosworth Field, Canon-Typical Violence, Fever, Gen, Injury Recovery, Non-Canonical Character Death, Richard III Survives, Scoliosis, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:23:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asthiathien/pseuds/asthiathien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On August 22nd, 1485, King Richard III kills Henry Tudor at Bosworth before almost being killed in turn by the men of the traitor Lord Stanley. The king is taken to recover at the Franciscan Friary in Leicester, as Stanley is tried for treason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 22 August, 1485

“The Tudor is dead!”

John Howard whipped around at his king’s cry, seeing the triumphant Richard wheeling away from the battle with his shattered lance held aloft.

“Duke Howard!”

Howard turned at his knight’s call, and felt his heart drop like a stone as he saw Stanley’s soldiers converging on Richard, swords drawn.

As the Tudor forces pulled away, Howard could see Richard struggling to free his horse from the marsh, and horror shot through him as he realized that Richard knew he would never stand a chance on the ground, not when he was so quickly fatigued.

“To the King!” Howard yelled, urging his horse forward into a gallop, his men disengaging from the retreating Tudor forces and falling in behind him. 

“No!” he screamed as a charging soldier knocked Richard to the ground, trying to urge his horse to move faster as he flinched at Richard’s defiant cries as the king charged forward, swiftly becoming lost to sight amidst the melee. 

Suddenly, Richard’s cries were cut off, and Howard’s grip on his sword tightened so strongly that he heard the metal of his armor’s fingers grinding together.

Howard crashed into the outer ring of Stanley’s horsemen at full speed, three sweeps of his sword unhorsing several of them before he leaped off lest he accidentally trample Richard. With his bodyguards arrayed about him, he forced himself through the soldiers in time to see Stanley forcing a kneeling, bloodied Richard’s head up.

Howard lunged forward, blade flashing in his hand as Richard pulled himself up by Stanley’s arm, viciously slashing across the traitor's face.

“Treason,” Richard whispered faintly as he fell back. Howard lunged forward to catch him as the king slumped limply against him, eyes sliding closed.

“Richard!” Howard cried out instinctively, pulling his king close and cutting down an advancing soldier before supporting Richard’s weight as he stood, two of his knights moving to assist. One shielded their rear as the other took Richard’s right arm, supporting the king between them as they forced themselves through Stanley’s increasingly-desperate men.

Howard swiftly mounted his brown stallion and pulled up Richard to sit in front of him, his bleeding head lolling back to rest against Howard’s shoulder as he rode at full speed for the tents of the royal healers.


	2. 29 August, 1485

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I have absolutely no idea how medieval trials were supposed to have worked.

“Lord Stanley, you have been charged with high treason before this court on the 29th of August 1485. You attempted, upon the field of battle at Bosworth, on the 22nd of August of this same year, to kill His Royal Majesty King Richard III while the king believed your support was for his banner. Do you dispute these claims?”

“I do,” Stanley said, lifting his head so that the deep dagger stroke inflicted by Richard himself, still reddened, was clearly visible. “Richard is not the rightful king of England—his throne was attained upon the bodies of the legitimate heirs Edward V and Prince Richard—”

“Edward was slaughtered by the Lord Hastings in the royal lodgings in the Tower!” John Howard snarled, exploding up from his chair and stalking forward towards the kneeling Stanley. “I was there myself, and I swear before God that King Richard did not kill the princes but rather was the only cause for Prince Richard to have survived any longer than his older brother!”

“Duke Howard, the court recognizes your grievance with the accused, but please restrain yourself during the proceedings,” the judge said calmly, but not without directing a fierce glare in Stanley’s direction.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Howard said with a respectful bow towards the judge before he turned away from Stanley and began to return to his chair.

“If Richard is so innocent as you claim, then where is he now?” Stanley said with false sweetness behind his words.

Howard stiffened perceptibly, and without turning said in a voice of pure ice, “You know why.” He turned to direct a frigid glare towards the treasonous lord. “He lies in a fevered state from wounds inflicted by your men, on your orders if not by your own hand.” His voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “If he dies, his murder shall be laid upon your hands.” Howard spun around and stalked towards the door.

“Duke Howard!”

The only response to the judge’s protesting cry was the sound of the solid oak doors slamming shut behind him.

* * *

 

Howard halted at the door of Richard’s private room in the Greyfriars monastery, one hand clenching tightly around the doorframe as pure terror for his wounded king swept through him.

Several trained monks were collected about his bedside in the darkened room, clearly doing all they could to heal and comfort the injured monarch, but the sheen of feverish sweat upon his brow and the rictus of agony upon his face made it clear that they were not quite succeeding.

Howard slowly moved forward to his bedside, one hand reaching out to hover over the pale hand that clenched around the white bedspread. Richard’s head was turned to its side, long black hair spread across the pillows and the visible injuries a vivid red.

“Will he—?” Howard began, before breaking off as Richard cried out in pain and convulsed against the blankets.

“Treason!” Richard cried out, his voice thin and pained. “Treason!”

One of the monks darted for the nearby table as the others moved to restrain Richard as he struggled weakly against them, trying to fight free. The monk not holding him down pressed a wet cloth against his forehead, trying to cool his raging fever. After several agonizing moments, Richard went limp against the blankets, apparently exhausted beyond all his strength.

“Treason,” he murmured before going silent except for his ragged breathing.

A sigh spread collectively through the monks, the head friar laying a hand upon Richard’s forehead and murmuring a soft Latin prayer as Howard carefully moved closer, unwilling to interrupt him.

“He is stronger than you give him credit for.”

Howard started in surprise, looking up from Richard’s still form towards the friar and meeting the latter’s calm, keen gaze. After a long moment, the friar smiled sadly.

“He has the strength to survive this. And with God’s help, he will.”


	3. 31 August, 1485

Rapid, frantic language surrounded him first as he fought away the fevered slumber he had been entrapped in these last several days, trembling with exhaustion and the ordeal of fighting the injuries inflicted upon him on the battlefield of Bosworth.

“My king. . .”

Hands supported his aching back as he struggled to sit up, hearing if not quite comprehending the flurry of words and activity around him. Someone tried to say a few desperate words, but Richard lost his weak grasp upon tenuous reality and slipped back into semi-consciousness.

When Richard returned to himself, two of the monks were supporting him as he heaved, hands holding his hair back. Richard went slack against the monks’ support, hands gently lifting him to rest back against the bed.

“My liege, just rest now. All you need is time to heal. That is all you need concern yourself with.”

“N-No!” Richard cried out, trying to force himself back up as the monks turned back to him and tried to hold him down. “No, I must—Stanley’s treason—”

“Duke Howard has it well in hand—”

“No!” Richard said, breaking free of the holds upon him and looking desperately towards the head friar. “Please, you-you don’t understand, I must be there for his trial, otherwise Stanley w-will—”

His voice failed him once again, and the head friar placed a reassuring hand upon Richard’s shoulder. “Your Majesty, you are in no condition to provide evidence for a court of law.”

Richard shook free the hand and reached up to grasp the monk’s shoulder in a pleading gesture. “I know Stanley; he has far too many ways to escape the executioner’s axe. If I—If I am not there. . .” he shook his head in frustration as he struggled to breathe, hands shaking visibly as he fought to speak. “He will escape his punishment without a royal declaration of his guilt.” Richard met the taller monk’s eyes, unable to stop his trembling. “ _Please._ ”

The monk sighed wearily. “Very well, your Majesty.”

* * *

 

Stanley tilted his head smugly at the judge’s bench, the presumptive smirk upon his face making the judge want to call him out in a duel personally. “You see, your Honor, without the only witness to my alleged treason, King Richard himself, you cannot convict me.”

Duke Howard was practically boiling over with vindictive rage as Stanley continued, “And, of course, as His Majesty is severely injured and lying unconscious in the Greyfriars monastery, no testimony can be given against me—”

“And I am afraid, Lord Stanley, that this is where you are in error.”

The assembled members of the trial twisted around to see Richard III standing just within the doors, back straight and posture strong with no sign of injury. Stanley visibly paled as Richard drew closer, passing by on his way to ascending to the witness stand.

However, as Richard practically collapsed into the witness chair, it became immediately apparent that his initial show of strength was a façade. Beneath his golden crown, Richard’s face was alarmingly pale and his eyes were wide and glinting with a feverish brightness, and his breathing was harsh and struggling as he trembled continuously with spasms of pain and exhaustion.

“Your Majesty, do you have an accusation to levy against the accused?”

“Aye,” Richard said, leaning forward and fixing Stanley with a fierce stare. “The accused, Lord Stanley, did knowingly and with full intent to kill, did order his men to kill me, King Richard III of England, upon the 22nd of April 1485 at the battlefield of Bosworth, after I had killed the attempted usurper, Henry Tudor.”

“Can you be absolutely certain of that?”

“Yes,” Richard said, before bowing his head briefly as he struggled for breath, before murmuring his next words to the table before him, “the accused on that day approached me after his men, fully clothed in all Stanley’s livery and colors, had severely injured me to the point of near-unconsciousness, and said, to quote, ‘Farewell, Richard.’”

“Is that so?” the judge demanded, and Richard slowly nodded and made as if to speak once more before breaking off and bowing his head again.

“Are we truly to accept his testimony?” Stanley demanded. “He is injured and feverish! There is no possible way he could even remotely be considered in his right mind!”

“The question of my being in my right mind is not even a point of contention in this court!” Richard interjected. “Neither is it relevant to the matter of your guilt. It is a matter of fact, as witnessed by every soldier upon the field of battle at Bosworth—” here, he broke off briefly and slammed his hand into the table in frustration as he doubled over, fighting for breath, tremors running through his body. “—every soldier at the battle, that after I had slain Henry Tudor,” a shaking hand came up to point at Stanley as he gasped, “you and your men converged upon me, where I was uninjured, helmeted, and still on horseback, and a few moments later I was severely injured and near death, which had occurred during those few moments in which Henry’s men were over five horse-lengths away!” As Stanley tried to protest, Richard shoved himself to his feet and gestured around himself even as he swayed. “Who else could have _possibly_ inflicted these injuries upon me while I was surrounded by your men?”

“I. . .” Stanley stammered, his eyes flicking nervously around the chamber, but finding only cold fury and calm mercilessness in the eyes of the men surrounding him.

“Answer him,” Howard snapped, stepping up before Stanley and staring him down. “ _Answer him_ , you cowardly, treasonous bastard.”

“Well, Stanley?” the judge demanded, gesturing at Howard to stand down. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Stanley looked up at him briefly, lost for words, before his eyes hardened and he suddenly lunged across the chamber floor at Richard.

“You are no king of mine,” Stanley snarled at Richard, only a wood table separating them—across the room, Howard and the other members of the nobility were standing and moving to intercede. “You are not worthy of ruling this country,” and Stanley smirked as Richard flinched away. “Isn’t that right, _your Majesty?_ ”

“How dare you!” Howard shouted, and before anyone could stop him Howard backhanded Stanley hard, knocking him away from a shaking Richard. Stanley held up his hands submissively, before slashing a hidden dagger at his throat, forcing Howard to leap away. Stanley’s eyes briefly flicked towards the door behind the Duke of Norfolk before he sliced at Howard again, steadily forcing him backwards.

Thomas grabbed one of the guards’ swords and moved to defend his father, but William Stanley intercepted him, blades flashing as they dueled. Stanley’s dagger flashed in the candlelight as it plunged downward towards Howard’s heart –

And was smoothly deflected by another dagger as the new combatant twisted both blades, sending Stanley’s dagger clattering from his hand against the cold stone floor.

The room fell still as Richard grabbed Stanley by the lapels of his coat, glaring at him with a blazing light in his stormy grey eyes. “You are – a cowardly – weak – traitorous murderer – worthy of naught but _contempt_ ,” Richard snarled between gasps of pain, flinging Stanley to the ground at his feet. “You _disgust me_.” He gestured sharply to the guards. “Have this traitor taken to the dungeons to await his execution.”

They nodded, lifting Stanley by his arms and dragging him away, the doors slamming behind them with a chilling finality. In the ensuing silence, everyone turned to look at Richard where he stood in the center of the chamber, swaying on his feet as he fought for breath.

“Richard,” Howard started, before swiftly lunging forward and catching Richard as his king lost the battle to remain conscious and collapsed.

“Is he - ?” Thomas started, and Howard shook his head.

“He's alive; he just overextended himself,” he said, and swore quietly under his breath. “Damn it, he was in no condition to face down Stanley - ”

“You know Stanley would have weaseled his way out of a sentence of treason if Richard hadn’t interceded.”

“I know,” Howard murmured.

“He will live. He can survive this. You know he can.”


End file.
